


the art of shadowboxing

by Steve



Series: too quiet in this room [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Beau has some issues, Character Study, F/F, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: Beauregard grinned, spat blood from her teeth, and fought, and fought.





	the art of shadowboxing

**Author's Note:**

> Months and months ago, an anon requested Beau and Jester for the bingo prompt, "black eye." This is to prove that sometimes I really do dive back into the dark depths of my inbox and deliver on prompts people had forgotten about!

Even as a child, Beauregard couldn’t stop herself from getting into fights. She didn’t have a chance to figure that out about herself for a while, though. Her father didn’t like her going into town unsupervised. For a long time, the only people in her life were her parents and some tutors. She didn’t know how to talk to other kids.

Apparently, she was still pretty good at pissing them off.

She was nine or ten the first time she got into a real brawl—more of a scrap, honestly. She and some sons of her parents’ business associates had snuck into town together. They argued about something stupid. Beau threw the first punch, socking the boy right in the nose. She was surprised by her own reaction to the impact of flesh beneath her bony fist. It was addictive, a rush bigger and better than what she got from stealing books her father had forbidden her to read. It felt something more like climbing the tallest tree at the edge of the family vineyard to see all of Kamordah sprawled out beneath her, rough bark digging into her palms.

Her hand hurt afterward, but it was worth it. She felt strong, in control of something for once, even when the boy hit back. She hit back _harder._

Beau went home that evening with a black eye, bruised knuckles, skinned knees. Her father was furious, of course, and was sure to make his disapproval known. She was sent to bed aching with a second black eye to match the first. She looked like a raccoon.

When she reached adolescence, a sleazy new world of bar brawls and petty crime was opened up to her. Beauregard grinned, spat blood from her teeth, and fought, and fought. Every time she got half her face bashed in and came home with another nasty shiner, she knew how her father would react. He’d always been a man so very fond of symmetry.

His bullshit didn’t deter her, though. She took her injuries, her constant collection of broken blood vessels, and she wrapped them around herself like armor, like gleaming gold medals. The patchwork of bruises patterning her face in various stages of healing became as inseparable from her as a second layer of skin. Beau didn’t mind. The ache and heat and stiff weight—they were familiar, steadfast, something to anchor her heartbeat and remind her that she could feel.

There were some nights she’d lie in bed staring up at the spotless white ceiling, and she’d press her fingers to the hard, purple swell beneath her eye, charting its wobbly shape. She’d find the jagged half-scabbed scratch her father’s wedding ring always left above her cheekbone, a tiny red vale, and she’d press and push with the pads of her fingers, harder and harder and harder and harder until she saw stars, saw entire goddamn constellations crack open the walls of the world.

 

 

+

 

 

It was past midnight by the time Beauregard trudged back into The Leaky Tap after a late, brutal training session at the Archive. She ached all over in the perfect, satisfied way she loved, exhaustion pounded into her bones and soaking her like a warm bath.

Of their group, only Fjord and Jester were still up, hoarding an entire table of the mostly-empty tavern to themselves. They both brightened upon seeing her return. She didn’t know if she’d ever get used to that, really. It was nice.

“Well, you look like shit,” Fjord said cheerfully as she dropped into a seat across from him. He gestured to the disgruntled bartender to pour her an ale.

“Thanks,” she grunted, rubbing at her nose. Didn’t feel broken, at least.

“Ooh, ouch,” Jester said, making a face that was half-grimace, half-fascinated. “Your eye there looks really fucking bad, Beau.”

“Yeah, you need some ice for that shiner?” Fjord smiled, only somewhat teasing. “Or, uh, a steak or something?”

“Nah. Maybe just a couple more of these”—she gestured to her beer—“and a decent nap, you feel me?”

“It’s the middle of the night, Beau. That’s called going to sleep.”

“You guys are dumb.” Jester rolled her eyes, exasperated. “You don’t need _ice._ I’m _the_ cleric, remember? I can just heal you with magic, make it so that your whole face isn’t so jacked up and stuff.”

“Aw, don’t waste your spells on me, Jes. Besides,” she smirked, wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, “didn’t you once say my face looked cute, all jacked up like this? All the colours, and whatever?”

“Like a very gross, angry rainbow,” Jester agreed. “But that’s not the point right now! Even if you look super hot, it’s not right for you to, like, be _in pain._ ”

She downed the rest of her drink, unconcerned. “This is nothing, dude. You know I can take it.” She puffed out her chest, preening just a bit, before quickly stifling a wince. _Shit_. She’d forgotten about those bruised ribs.

Jester lifted a brow, unimpressed. Fjord snickered into his fist.

Beau shook it off, already focused on a different topic. “So, hey, let’s circle back to that part about me looking ‘ _super hot_ ,’ okay, that sounds a lot more intriguing...”

“Tsk. Don’t be an asshole.” Jester reached out, and rested cool hands on either side of Beau’s face. “Just because you _can_ take it, doesn’t mean you _have to_ , you know.”

Beau’s retort died on her lips, stilled by Jester’s touch, her thumb brushing gently against her swollen eye.

“I don’t want you to be hurting, Beau. Not when I have this cool magic shit right here to make you better.” Jester was peering at her through her lashes, something rare and inscrutable flitting across her expression.

But then she beamed, brilliant and sunlit as ever.

“So just let me take care of you, okay?”

“Um.” Her voice came out low, hoarse. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jester repeated.

It occurred to her that their faces were much closer than they strictly needed to be. At some point Beau’s throat had gone very dry. Had Jester’s hands always been this soft?

Then the familiar rush of Traveler-approved healing magic sprang into her, knitting together broken skin, rearranging blood vessels... It was like the soreness was being leeched from her body, leaving her lighter, almost empty. She was struck by the absurd urge to reach out, cry,  _Wait. Come back._

“There,” said Jester, pulling away with a bright grin. “Now your face is symmetrical and not all jacked up anymore. Don’t you feel way better already?”

“S-sure.” Her cheeks felt a little like they were on fire, actually. Strange. “Uh, thanks, Jes.”

“You’re welcome!” She hopped to her feet, satisfied. “I’ll go get more drinks. But, um, Beau”—she seemed to hesitate before her expression softened, grin quirking into something subtler, almost shy—“for the record, I think you look even more super hot like this, without all the marks and bruises and stuff. ’Cause... I mean, now everyone can see how pretty your eyes are.”

With that, she whirled around and dashed off to the bar. Beau was left to stare after her, tongue-tied and dizzy. _Gods_. Watching her, all Beau could see were stars. Constellations. The sun and both moons and the whole hopeful haze of the fucking galaxy.

...Meanwhile Fjord snickered again, a slow smirk spreading across his lips.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered.

“What?” he said, teasing. “Can’t I say your eyes are pretty, too?”

Beau threw a spoon at him. He retaliated accordingly, causing Jester to rush into the fray to stop them from wounding each other. Tangled in a mess of limbs and laughter, Beauregard had never felt more anchored, more steady in her skin.

It was nice.

 


End file.
